


Grieving From The Void

by ladyofdecember



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Depression, Drama, Lost Love, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Male Friendship, Post Reichenbach, Suspense, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofdecember/pseuds/ladyofdecember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Reichenbach. John drinks himself into a stupor one night at the pub and gets into trouble with a stranger. Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

For hours upon hours upon hours it seemed Sherlock Holmes had sat in the middle of a crowded pub on Abbey Street slightly near the back where the lights were quite dim indeed.

He glared down at his pint with distaste. He wasn't there for fun or entertainment, oh no. He wasn't there to have a “good time”. How could he? This wasn't what he considered particularly fun and besides, he had important work to be doing. 

So why then was he in this noisy establishment on a cold Saturday night when he could be doing research? Of course, the answer was John Watson.

His eyes flickered over to where the good doctor was sitting perched up high on one of the bar stools and downing pint after pint of alcohol. Sherlock wondered why on earth someone who knew they were going to be inebriated later in the evening would choose such a precarious and unsafe seating arrangement.

And just as he the thought crossed his mind the good doctor did in fact begin to sway as if to fall off said bar stool. The detective was up and over to him within seconds. The barkeep looked none too happy having someone that sloshed in his establishment. Sherlock pasted on a quick smile full of embarrassment and with a shrug to the man helped John down from his seat.

“Wha? I'm... What?” John stumbled over his words like he stumbled over his feet as he was “helped” out of the small pub and out into the cold night air.

Sherlock began the work of having to half carry half drag John home to the flat on Baker Street.

“Who are you?! Hey-I-let go!”

Thankfully there was no one on the street or that would be quite uncomfortable. He certainly didn't want to draw attention to the two of them nor did he want John knowing it was him. So, he had to be quick, efficient. He tugged at the collar of his coat and pulled his hat down slightly shielding his face from John's quick eyes.

“Come on.” he muttered quietly to him lowering his register just so in an effort to disguise his voice. 

Luckily for Sherlock, John was quite inebriated to say the least. He'd had... at least nine pints possibly more. The detective had lost count somewhere after 10 o'clock struck.

John continued to struggle lightly but he just didn't have the strength in him. As they turned a corner heading down towards a particularly darkened street a sense of panic and doom filled him. Dear god... what was happening? Was this real? A man was half heaving him down a dark street to who knows where and he was too drunk to actually fight back. No... wait, maybe he wasn't too bad off.

John tried to rip his arm away from the grasp of the stranger but found they only wound their arm around his right arm pinning it backwards.

'Oh no...' he thought worriedly. 

The stranger continued pushing him and steering him this way and that down streets and sidewalks keeping a careful grip on his arm he supposed to make sure he would not get away. Also, he was having quite a hard time walking and kept tripping over his feet. The stranger's grip, albeit an unwelcome one was keeping him from falling face first onto the concrete.

The panic didn't subside in him though. He had done it now. He had drank himself stupid all alone at a pub and now he was going to pay for it. His mind tried to think of ways out of this. He tried to concentrate on what was in his pocket he could use... nothing. Of course, he'd left his gun at home. No matter, maybe he could simply just get the right grip on the man but it seemed his motor skills and functions just were not with him.

The man seemed to halt where they were keeping a careful grip on John's arms and the doctor suddenly noticed where they were. For some reason he had been brought to his flat and the confusion surrounding that idea engulfed his consciousness completely.

He was let go momentarily causing himself to fall flat on his arse. The pavement was not only cold but also quite wet from a recent rain. When had it rained?

The tall man cursed and quickly leaned down to help John up. John decided he really was too drunk to figure out what was going on and closed his eyes against a dizzying feeling that seemed to be overtaking him now.

Somehow, the door to the flat was opened and he opened his eyes again to see the interior of 221B and the staircase leading up towards the living room. John felt himself again being dragged along although now it was up the stairs. Panic was back blooming in the back of his mind as he realized the man may have been following him for quite some time and then noticing the state he was in at the pub took the opportunity to pounce like a predator to his prey.

He was feeling viciously sick to his stomach from the quick movements up the stairs as the man helped him/tugged at his arms to get him up each step. There was nothing but darkness and dizziness surrounding his vision but the strange man was helping to maneuver him wherever they were heading. Most probably a bedroom John thought with a sudden drop of his stomach. It didn't help his already sick feeling.

They seemed to stop then having reached the end of the stairs which had taken an immensely long time. John wondered if it had really taken as long as he'd imagined or if he'd imagined it taking forever simply from being intoxicated. He opened his eyes hazily and realized they were in his bedroom. He quickly tried to turn around and face his assailant but the strong arms lifted him up into a bridal style position.

“No… no, leave me…” John slurred ending up murmuring into the stranger's warm shoulder rather than protesting loudly.

He was deposited onto a bed, soft and springy and oh so very inviting. His bed, his mind corrected. John spread out amongst the covers, the bed tempting him with unconsciousness but his mind tried to fight back remembering some sort of panic although as seconds ticked by more and more he seemed to forget just what exactly he had been panicking about.

“John… everything's alright now. You’re safe. You’re home.” Sherlock sighed in relief and weariness from the night's events as he quickly turned to leave the bedroom.

And it’s then that John suddenly realizes who the man actually is. He’s overcome with tears and noisy sniffling and slobbering from his inebriation but also from the heartbreak that is trying to resurface just like it always does on late nights like this. John's eyes are blinking rapidly trying to see through the darkness of the room and he looks like a fish struggling amongst the covers on the bed.

The tall figure hasn't left yet and has paused hovering between the outside of the bedroom and the inside just standing in the doorway. It's so dark in the room, he can barely make out the figure's silhouette. His tears are in the way and he rubs at his eyes angrily.

He tries to speak but nothing comes out. He tries again and this time something does although the voice is raspy from shock and from drinking, “Sherlock?”

No... no, it can’t be. That's ridiculous. He feels embarrassed then and quite silly. Could it be a ghost then? He must really be plastered to be imagining a ghost. A ghost can’t speak to you, a ghost doesn't help you get home after a late night out at the pub. How silly all of this is. Is he dreaming? Nothing makes sense and he must be dreaming because his brain won't work for him despite his internal pleading at it to make sense of all of this.

“I’m sorry...” he slurs apologetically to the stranger. “You remind me of my friend. You look like my friend...” he half shouts overcome with emotion, the alcohol really making his head swim. He feels embarrassed and he doesn't even know what he is saying anymore. There's a stranger in his home but it doesn't seem to matter somehow. Nothing matters anymore. He sighs and just lays back down still against one of his pillows. It's slightly cold on his skin and he shuts his eyes in total desperation and grief.

Sherlock sighed deeply, one of those sighs that ring of true and total despair. He hangs back in the shadows of the dark bedroom by the door ready and willing to bolt but can’t find it in him to abandon the man in his time of need. He knew it was a bad idea to interfere. He knew he should have left him there at the dimly lit pub and stayed out of the way. 

Hell, he really shouldn't have even gone to the pub in the first place. He'd only went out of curiosity and well... boredom. Mycroft had all his cameras and his spies tailing John, there was really no reason for Sherlock to follow him John around but he just... he had to. He had to watch out for him. He couldn't simply rely on video feeds and text messages informing him all the time. He needed to see the man in flesh and bone, alive and well. Although, he hadn't been well for many months now, Sherlock thought guiltily.

And now, because of his own stupidity and emotions, Sherlock was going to be caught. He really shouldn't stay one more moment. He should excuse himself before John sobered and realized just what was going on.

John stretched out across his mattress tugging at the blankets like a child. He looked so innocent lying there. 

“Sherlock was my best friend. My best friend…” John trailed off sleepily speaking into his pillow now.

When it appeared that he had fallen asleep Sherlock wondered if he should turn him onto his side to make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit. Hopefully, he wouldn't be sick later but then again he had had a lot to drink. He wasn't very familiar with the man's drinking habits or tolerance other than on Christmas when he was wont to have a few.

He does turn him over but not before gently brushing the blonde hair back from his forehead.

'He won’t remember this in the morning. Indulge yourself a little.' Sherlock's thoughts tell him and seem to egg him on. 'He won’t remember anything.'

The dark haired man leaned down and kissed his forehead lightly, his lips lingering for just a second. 

'This was a mistake!' his mind screams. 'Get out now!'

“I miss you...” he murmured quietly his eyes filling with tears. Brushing his lips so very gently across the man's skin he found his heart beating rapidly, so much so that they began to pound in his ears. 

How unfair life was, how cruel fate could be. 

His lip began to quiver as he forced himself to pull away from the warm man. 'No... the mission can't be compromised. I cannot let myself be distracted.' he thought as his eyes roved over the doctor's sleeping figure.

John lay still, eyes closed, all trace of emotion and distraught gone from his face now that sleep had overtaken him.

Sherlock rubbed futilely at his eyes as the tears began to slip down his cheeks. It made him angry but with a start he reprimanded himself reminding himself that it was John who should be angry not him and rightfully so. John was the one who was suffering, not him. Although he felt quite lightheaded standing over the man and felt he might faint from just the presence of him. He was sick to death of the distance between them but it was for the greater good. He just had to keep reminding himself of that.

He took a deep breath and then another and then another until he felt calm enough. The tears dried from his eyes and he set his jaw just so in determination. Glancing down at the man who was sleeping quite deeply now he smiled albeit sadly.

“Goodbye, John.” 

And with that he spun on his heel and quickly left the room never looking back.

...

It was bright all throughout the flat as the sunshine of the morning persistently shone all around. John stumbled down the stairs from his bedroom hungover and running his hands all over his face and through his messy hair. 

He sighed tiredly as he finally reached the kitchen. Putting the kettle on he winced at the loud, striking noise it caused. Leaning against the counter, John placed his head in his hands in quiet resignation. 

He begins thinking over last night. He wonders how he got home and why he had been so trashed in the first place? It wasn't like him to just go out and drink and drink but then again the last few months had been less than kind to him. Hell, the last 2 years. 

Suddenly, he remembers that a man had seemed to come home with him and for a moment blind panic begins rushing through him. Was he still here? And, did he take advantage of him?! What exactly had happened last night?

John furrowed his brow in concentration as the events just did not seem to make sense. He felt okay he guessed, you know besides the massive headache and dizziness.

A voice spoke up then coming from somewhere in the living room. To say it started him would be the understatement of the year. 

“Hello, John.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was deeply in love with John Watson; This was simply a fact. A cold, hard fact whether he liked it or not. 

The man sat, deep in thought, in the sitting room of 221B. It was 7AM, on a dreary Sunday morning. His mind had been roaming over many things that morning but mostly it had been reflecting over the matter of his relationship with one John Hamish Watson and just how much the doctor might remember from the previous night.

Yes, it was true, he had dragged the man home to prevent anything terrible from happening to him whilst he was intoxicated. Yes, it was true, his heart pounded every time he began to think about the kiss he had planted on his forehead. And yes, it was true, he was wondering just why exactly he was still sitting in his former living room, when he had told himself nearly seven hours prior that he was most assuredly leaving. Sherlock had swore to himself he would never again glance upon the brilliant doctor's face, never again relish in the man's attention, never again.

Sherlock shifted in his seat on the expansive couch. He could see the sun's rays from the window, rising across the top of the far wall in front of him. They traveled higher, slowly and almost imperceptibly to the human eye.

He swallowed, nervously, as an onslaught of emotions hit him full force. He wasn't quite sure why he was still sitting here in his old abode. His mind began to feel fuzzy as his heart began to ache all the more. Sherlock had missed this place. He had missed everything about it, sure, but he had more important matters to attend to. He must press on, surely, he must. He missed his flatmate, John Watson; a man who was more than a flatmate, more than an assistant, more than a doctor, more than a friend. He was so much more than the simplest of definitions or terms. To him, John Watson was a god and Sherlock merely a devout follower, consistently in awe of his splendor.

It was nearing eight o'clock now. The sun had rose completely now and had begun it's dance across the sky. Sherlock's phone remained suspiciously silent. He'd expected a multitude of texts from Mycroft by now. Ah, of course, he realized with a sudden clarity. His older brother had arranged to have the flat bugged in order to keep a better eye on the former doctor. Yes, that was why his mobile had been quiet. Mycroft was already well aware of his presence in the flat.

The detective rolled his eyes in aggravation at the thought.

Time ticked on as Sherlock wondered just how long would he have to wait until John would awaken? Hopefully soon as the detective was growing rather impatient and the lure of a cigarette was itching across his arms and deep down in his veins, throbbing and demanding attention.

There was a noise that echoed down the stairs and danced near his eardrums. He sat up straighter, with delight, realizing this could only be his John awakening from his deep slumber. Yes, soon he would be reunited with the man. Consequences be damned, he had made his decision to stay and wait for the good doctor to awaken. He couldn't be away from the man any longer. It had been a torturous three years and he had had enough.

It had taken so much time for him to work out that he was in love with the man. Thankfully, he'd had plenty of time to think about the notion, spending most of the previous years in near isolation. When he said that he was in love with the man, he didn't state it lightly. Love was a dangerous thing but worth it in the end, he'd decided. John Watson was his soul mate. There was no other more perfect person out there for him, that much he was certain.

Sherlock had never believed in soul mates until he'd met him. The good doctor had hastily brought him to his senses with their very first meeting. Was it love at first sight? The detective didn't believe in such inclinations but something had occurred between them that day in the lab. He'd felt it at the time but was unable to put his finger on just what exactly it was. Now, so many years later, he finally understood.

Sherlock Holmes seemed a mystery to most people but he was actually very simple to understand once you got to know him. The most important thing in the world to him, is solving cases and figuring out serial killer's motives. The second most important thing was of course, John Watson, his former partner in crime. 

While being away for so long from the man, he had realized that the only way for him to function normally was to be with John. It was confusing to him to think this way about another person and yet, it felt and seemed so right.

John suddenly appeared in the doorway, though only for a moment, as he stumbled towards the kitchen. Was he really still intoxicated? It had been many hours since he had ushered the man home.

He heard the kettle begin inside the kitchen and the sounds of clumsy feet, stumbling back and forth and all around. Maybe he should announce his presence. After all, he had come this far, hadn't he? Best to get it over with.

“Hello, John.” he mumbled, feeling very insecure about his ultimate choice.

The blonde man seemed to stumble out of the the kitchen and clumsily into the doorway of the living room. He grasped the door frame tightly, his knuckles turning white, as his wide eyes peered into the bright sunlight in the room.

“What?!” he shouted.

Sherlock blinked back calmly at the man, his palms laying flat against the tops of his thighs. He licked his lips and just stared at the man's tired and drawn face.

John swallowed nervously, quite literally fearing a breakdown creeping across his already fragile mind. The hangover wasn't helping things either. His mental state, as of late, had been worrisome to say the least. He leaned his weight against the door frame, fearing his unsteady legs may give out from under him.

There was a long moment of silence between them, filled with awkwardness and an uncomfortable chagrin.

Sherlock watched as the soldier seemed to take a deep breath and stood a little straighter. He moved, then, towards him seeming to forget the boiling and whistling kettle on the stove behind him.

“Sherlock... ?” he ventured, unsure and sounding so very fragile.

The man nodded back at him, unwilling to stand up just yet and admit his folly. Surely, the logical decision would have been for him to just leave in the middle of the night. John wouldn't have remembered. He was so very drunk and would have dismissed any sort of visions as an intoxicated delusion. Why? Why had he stayed? He was only making things worse for the man. Logic dictated that he should have left while he could and yet he had stayed and waited for John to awaken. Why? Why put him through this torture? 

Sherlock, of course, had stayed because he missed the man. He understood why but he also realized that the doctor would be better off without him. He didn't deserve his John any more. He had failed him, let him down, drove him to drinking and, he feared, much worse things that he had been too afraid to ask Mycroft about.

Sherlock stood up from his seat, seemingly to smooth his coat under the palms of his hands. He averted his gaze from John's shaken and unreadable expression and glanced at everything and anything else. 

Finally, he began to step forward towards the soldier. What could he say? What should he say? He truly didn't know and so he remained silent. He worried for John's sanity and also for his physical health seeing as Harry also had a problem with alcohol. He quickly brushed the thoughts aside. John wasn't an alcoholic; he was depressed. The detective could feel nothing but remorse at the sobering thought.

“John, I... ” he trailed off, suddenly unsure of his actions.

The doctor met his gaze and seemed to reach a hand out towards him, although they remained many feet away from one another. Sherlock couldn't bear to be any closer. How could he? He'd hurt the man and he just wanted everything to be okay again.

“You're... you're alive. I can't believe it.” John mumbled. “My wish came true.”

Sherlock frowned and busied himself with straightening his long, woolen coat. How dare he come back here. He was hurting the man more so than if he had simply stayed away. What a selfish and prideful thing he had done. And for what purpose, exactly? Because he was unhappy without him. What a terrible human being he was. Sherlock sighed and averted his gaze down towards their wooden desk. Nothing about the flat had apparently changed, despite his absence.

John's eyes began to water as he stepped forward, moving closer and closer towards the dark haired man. Finally, he came to a stop just slightly in front of him. Reaching a hand up to brush the side of his face, he murmured, “My god, Sherlock...”

The detective swallowed, suddenly feeling very nervous. Was he going to punch him? Was he going to demand that he leave? What should he do? What could he say? The words wouldn't come. He began to feel the walls of the flat close in on them menacingly.

“I love you so much!” John exclaimed, latching himself onto the man and hugging him with all of his might. The sudden movement tugged at Sherlock's shoulders, bringing him down a half an inch or so to meet the shorter man's frame. Sherlock felt very lightheaded and just a tad bit confused. He tried to take a few deep breaths, feeling as though he was not getting enough oxygen.

Sherlock hugged him back, just as tightly, marveling in the feeling. Why, oh why, had he stayed away for so long? He had wanted to keep him safe. He had wanted to avoid losing the man but in his efforts, had lost him in the end. And now, John was back in his life, back for good, Sherlock promised himself. He never wanted to let go again. And, he never would.


End file.
